


I can show you better

by flylow



Category: Killing Eve (TV 2018)
Genre: F/F, Hurt/Comfort, it's extra soft don't look
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-08
Updated: 2020-05-08
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:14:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24068677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flylow/pseuds/flylow
Summary: Eve and Villanelle have nothing left but each other. They find a moment to consider what comes next.
Relationships: Eve Polastri/Villanelle | Oksana Astankova
Comments: 12
Kudos: 293





	I can show you better

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place in some... theoretical near-end-of-season scenario where both Eve and Villanelle have lost those they consider family. 
> 
> Written before 3x05's airing.

Villanelle sat on the lip of the bed, elbows to her knees, eyes fixed to her hands, when Eve walked into the room.

She wanted to sit beside her. She wanted to wrap one arm around her back and hold her tight, but something in the set of Villanelle’s shoulders made her pause.

“Last year, I went to his house,” Villanelle said. “Found his wife, his daughter. And when he got home, he couldn’t stop asking me what I’d done with them.”

Eve’s chest tightened when Villanelle looked up at her. It was a small and skittish movement. The way her leg bounced — on edge — and the way her fingers locked together — tense — reminded Eve of an animal backed into a corner.

Eve ached to see her this way. She ached to see punctures riddled through walls usually drawn up. She had seen Villanelle vulnerable before — by the tip of a knife to her stomach, by a hand to her cheek, by their lips pressed together — but this was different. This was ugly and raw and bleeding still.

“Can you believe that?” she went on. “He thought I might have killed them.”

“I didn’t know him very well,” Eve said, cautious, “but he didn’t seem the type to trust.”

“Not even me,” Villanelle said, somewhere between a statement and a question. Her gaze was lost on some intangible point in space.

“Did you trust him?”

“I learned not to,” she said. And then, quieter, “I learned not to trust anyone at all.”

Eve moved slowly when she came to sit beside Villanelle on the bed. She reached for her hand, found it, and held it there against the sheets.

“I trust you, you know,” Eve said. “In the way I know how.”

Villanelle smiled, then, but it was guarded, hiding something. “Eve,” she said, trying to joke, trying to pretend that nothing hurt, “Some people might say it’s bad policy to trust someone who has shot you. Even if they are very beautiful.”

“Yeah, well…” Eve sighed.

She was so close to saying something half-witty — ‘ _I got some really nice clothes out of it, didn’t I?’_ — but now wasn’t the time. Villanelle was too close to breaking. The question she didn’t dare speak was too loud. _‘You really trust me, Eve? After what I did to you?’._

“I didn’t get here on good policies,” Eve said.

Choices, and all of that. She squeezed Villanelle’s hand to show her that she didn’t regret this one.

This time, when Villanelle smiled, it was closer to real.

“Thank you, by the way,” she said.

“For?” Eve asked.

“For trusting that it wasn’t me.”

Villanelle looked down, and for a moment, looked nervous — brought her walls in a little tighter. Like maybe she shouldn’t have brought it up. But she meant it, and she was tired of talking about Konstantin.

It had never been a question in Eve’s mind whether or not Villanelle had killed Niko. She knew Villanelle better than that. She knew that Villanelle cared too much; that she didn’t want to hurt her. But Eve also knew, ultimately, that Villanelle would have had no reason to do away with Niko — not when Eve had chosen her time and time again. 

It wasn’t for lack of thinking on these things that Eve found herself choking on something impossible to swallow away. Her hand left Villanelle’s to rest against her own chest. Guilt and grief caught her by surprise and brought tears up behind her eyes.

“I—” she started, but choked on that impossible thing in her throat.

Villanelle turned her body towards Eve, one leg bent up on the bed, and opened herself up for the first time since this conversation had started. But she did not touch Eve.

Eve’s voice was small and tight when she found it, “Were you scared? That I’d thought you’d done it?”

“No,” Villanelle said simply. She looked down at their hands lying close together against the bed, and when she found Eve’s eyes again, leaned in the slightest bit, as though about to share with her a secret. “But I don’t like it. Anyone even suggesting that I would ever hurt you like that.”

“I knew,” Eve assured her. “So it doesn’t matter.”

“Okay.”

Anger lived in Villanelle — anger at those who had tried to drive them apart, anger at those who had wounded Eve, at those who had underestimated the thing that bound them together. It made her eyes restless. Eve thrilled and melted to know she could draw something so strong out of Villanelle.

Eve brought her legs onto the bed, scooted close to Villanelle, and brought one hand to brush her hair and soothe her. She tucked a few strands behind her ear and leaned forward to rest their foreheads together. She shut her eyes and stayed that way until Villanelle’s breaths slowed to match her own.

“We’re making some people very angry,” Villanelle said, and she sounded thrilled. Eve opened her eyes to find her smiling. “Just being together.”

“You think they’re scared of us?”

“Of course,” she said, smug. She brought her hands to rest against Eve’s thighs. “We are a power couple.” The ‘r’ rolled against the roof of her mouth.

Eve couldn’t help smiling, rolling her eyes. It was endearing that Villanelle thought them something unstoppable.

“Just imagine,” Villanelle continued, fueled by Eve’s reaction, “the Twelve shitting themselves because we are in the same room.”

That made Eve lean back and laugh. The soft, dangerous, imperfect mess of them huddled close together, sharing breaths, threatened one of the world’s greatest crime syndicates. With Villanelle so close, she believed it. There was a power in her that was contagious.

“You have a scary look on your face, you know?” Villanelle told her with a smile.

“I’m just thinking.”

“About?”

“About how much I’d love to prove them right.”

About taking ownership of the dark thing in herself. About taking down the Twelve. About killing everyone who had thought to harm her or Villanelle. About finding freedom in all of it, together.

Villanelle swallowed hard. Eve followed the hard lines on her neck when she did.

“You have to know, Eve, that if we start this — there is no going back.”

“I know,” Eve said.

“You won’t be able to turn around. You won’t be able to go home.”

Eve felt the sting of a bullet close to her heart. Rather than reach for her own chest, she reached for Villanelle, instead. Her hand found the dip of her waist, hugged her there.

“That’s—” Eve hesitated. “I won’t have to turn around to go home.”

Villanelle’s eyes grew soft, her brows knitted together, and her breath stuttered. The way it caught it her throat almost sounded like a hiccup.

“Is that okay?” Eve asked.

“What do you mean?” Villanelle said, slow, because she wasn’t sure what else to say. Eve always pulled the rug right from under her.

“I mean—is it what you want?” To damn the rest of the world and close the universe in on themselves. Eve had nothing left to lose anymore, but she’d heard about Villanelle on a trip to a remote town in Russia — had heard about lost connections and the chance at a normal life. “If there’s a better home for you to go to—”

“No,” Villanelle said, quick, sharp. And Eve must have said the wrong thing, all the wrong things, because now, there were tears in her eyes. “There isn’t.”

“Hey,” Eve whispered, soft, as she came in close. “I’m sorry, I didn’t—” But she didn’t know what else to say, what else to do except hold Villanelle’s face between her hands and brush the wet from her cheeks.

“You’re fine,” Villanelle told her.

“Not if you aren’t.”

“I am.”

Eve gave her a look.

“Really, I am,” Villanelle assured her. “I’m happy that you want me.” It was sweet, but something heavy hung in its shadow. _‘Thank you for wanting me — the real me — when they didn’t.’_

It reminded Eve of a moment galaxies away—a shirt clung to wet skin, a half-heated Tupperware of shepherd’s pie, a printed prison record, and a paring knife.

Nothing but bullshit, then, when she’d said, _‘I have nowhere to go. I need help. Eve, please, I am so sorry.’_

Anything but a lie, now.

Eve slid onto Villanelle’s lap. She cradled her face and let Villanelle trace the line of her jaw with the very tips of her fingers. Her hands were trembling, her touch barely there, delicate as the flutter of a butterfly's wings.

“Eve,” she breathed, and Eve felt it against her lips.

She let their noses brush together and leaned the rest of the way to kiss her. It was a proper kiss, this time, that bled into another before they could even think to separate.

When Eve pulled away to catch her breath, she found Villanelle’s eyes dark and hungry. Her bottom lip was wet where Eve had taken it between hers, bitten it, then licked it better. A deep flush had crept up her neck, colored her ears, and sat high on her cheeks now.

This time, when Eve kissed her, she arched her back and pressed her hips down onto Villanelle’s lap. Villanelle reached for her waist, her hips, to help her move against her.

She spoke Eve’s name against her neck, and the kisses she left there, sucking and licking up to the soft space below her ear, made stringing words together very difficult. “Vill—” she started, but grew distracted by the hand winding its way up through her hair. Villanelle tilted her head the slightest bit back, so that she could bite better against her pulse.

“Do you know how much I love you, Eve?”

The raw honesty in Villanelle’s voice, the vulnerability, let Eve find her own voice again. “If it’s half as much as you love yourself,” she teased, pushing back against Villanelle’s shoulders. “Then a lot.”

Villanelle let Eve lay her down. “More,” she said.

“More than half as much?”

Eve’s eyes found the sliver of skin where Villanelle’s shirt had ridden up the soft skin below her navel. She slipped her hands there, under the hem, and started her way up. She stopped when her fingers met the thin pink line over her belly. She pressed her thumb against it, and watched Villanelle shiver. The way her lips parted, and the way her pupils grew deep and dark, made Eve wonder how often Villanelle had touched her scar, just like this, while her other hand was busy elsewhere.

“More,” Villanelle repeated.

So Eve leaned down to trace the scar with her lips. She licked the line with the hard tip of her tongue, and then the flat of it, and Villanelle writhed and whined beneath her mouth.

It lasted hardly more than several seconds. Villanelle wrapped her fingers around Eve’s arms and rolled her back onto the mattress, knee pressed up between her thighs.

“You’re making me very wet, Eve,” Villanelle said. She slid her hands to Eve’s wrists, then, and pinned them either side of her head.

Villanelle’s hands were large against Eve’s own, and Eve tested the strength of her fingers wrapped around her wrists. Villanelle pressed down harder. She smiled, far too smug, when Eve sighed and rolled her hips down against her thigh.

“What happened to you telling me about how much you love me?” Eve asked.

Villanelle kissed her, and it was dirty, the way she let her tongue into Eve’s mouth. When she pulled away, strings followed the space between their lips.

“I can show you better,” she said.

Eve let Villanelle show her. She showed her from the soft of her knee to the center of her thighs. She showed her with her mouth and with her tongue, with kisses and strokes that made her hips jump. She showed her until Eve was dripping down her chin and into her hand, and when she was close, she showed her with the curl of slender fingers. She showed her how good it felt to come with them deep inside, with her mouth over her clit, with her name between her lips.

When Eve payed her back, it was with Villanelle straddling her lap. She played with her nipples until Villanelle left streaks of slick against her thighs.

“Eve,” she said, and it was a plea dressed as a warning. She wrapped one hand around Eve’s throat and held it there — gentle, barely squeezing — as she tried to claim a portion of her control quickly slipping.

There would be other times for teasing, Eve thought, as she pressed her hand where Villanelle was wet and hot and needing. She watched her ride her fingers, sloppy and primal, and reveled in the way she squeezed around her when she pressed into her just right.

When Villanelle’s breathing grew short and shallow, which didn’t take long, something changed in the rhythm of her hips. She slowed, almost to a stop, and then picked up, before starting all over again. And Eve realized what she was doing — that she was edging herself, trying not to come, trying to draw out her pleasure at Eve’s hands just a little longer. It made Eve throb.

She wrapped her free arm, the one not busy between Villanelle’s thighs, around her waist and held her close so that she could guide her rhythm. Villanelle whined and tugged at her hair.

“Shh,” Eve said.

She placed her lips against her throat and helped her rock faster, bucked her hips to fuck her better.

“Eve, I can’t—”

“I’ve got you,” she said between kisses. “You’re perfect.” Eve could practically see the blush rise up her neck at that. With her mouth open, she chased the color down to her clavicle, and then licked her way back up, whispering her name — _Oksana_ , not Villanelle.

Her fingers slid so easily at that, and Villanelle clenched around her. Drawing her up, and in, and she was close, so close —

Eve wouldn’t let her drag it out again.

“I love you,” she said against her skin, murmured it like a prayer. 

Villanelle came hard. She let Eve take her how she wanted. She trusted her to ease her back to herself, slow and steady and perfect. Then, she melted in Eve’s arms, eyes closed, slack-jawed, as Eve traced aimless patterns across the smooth skin of her back.

When Eve’s touches started to excite her again, she made her way to her face with kisses across her shoulder, up her neck, over her jaw.

“Next time, I want to ride your face, okay?” she said.

Eve smiled. “Okay."

“You really love me?”

“Of course,” Eve said.

Villanelle kissed her on the mouth.

“I think that was the best sex I ever had,” she said, matter-of-fact.

“You think?”

“Definitely the best sex I ever had.”

When Eve smiled into their kiss, they nearly bumped teeth, and that made her smile even harder.

“It’s cause I started talking about murdering the Twelve,” Eve said. “Got you all hot and bothered.”

“Mmm, yes. My kink,” Villanelle said.

“Oh my god, what if you can’t get off, then, after we’ve killed—”

Villanelle kissed her to shut her up. She kissed her so tenderly, one hand over her heart, that Eve forgot the stupid joke she was in the middle of making.

Villanelle found Eve with a smile on her face when she pulled away. It was so soft and honest that Eve almost looked embarrassed to have been caught wearing it.

“You’re happy,” Villanelle said.

“Yeah, well…” Eve linked their hands together, let their fingers interlock. “I’m free.”

**Author's Note:**

> *stitch voice* this is my family... I found it all on my own. It's little, and broken, but still good.


End file.
